


Love Letters From a Wordsmith

by Fionaxyz



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-08
Updated: 2015-01-08
Packaged: 2018-03-06 17:17:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3142385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fionaxyz/pseuds/Fionaxyz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Writing the perfect love letter is impossible - just ask Ron.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Letters From a Wordsmith

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the lovely Insane Asylum and StarShinobi for being my wonderful beta's.

Ron furrows his brow in concentration, ignoring the headache that’s starting to form behind his eyes. This is by far the hardest thing he’s ever had to do. He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, trying to calm his body down.

He’s hunched over at his desk, a quill clenched in his calloused fingers. A fire is crackling in the hearth to his left and is starting to make him perspire from the warmth. The sun is beginning to set; the lackluster light coming in from his sitting room window is making him wonder if it’s time to call it quits for the night. He’s been working at this all day, only stopping to eat and use the bog, and it shows in the spread of crumpled parchment strewn over the desk’s surface.

He decides to keep working. He’s nothing if not persistent after all, _pig-headed_ as Hermione would say, and this is important to him. He blots his quill and gets back to work.

_Dear Harry,_

_It’s almost Christmas – a time for family, friends, and new beginnings. You might not know this but for wizards Christmas is the traditional time of year for having wishes granted. How does this relate to what I’m about to tell you? Well… that’s difficult for me to say. I’ve tried so many times to tell you over the years but never found the right words to describe the depth of my feelings for you._

Ron frowns. That just makes him sound like a girl. In fact he’s pretty sure he might have read something very similar in Ginny’s diary once. Or it might have been Percy’s.

_Harry,_

_I’m in love with you—_

No. He can’t just blurt it out at the beginning; he needs to build up to it. He doesn’t want to scare him off by coming on too strong. Ron knows he tends to rush head first into most situations, acting on impulse and running off of emotion, and he doesn’t want to do that this time. He needs to do this right.

_H,_

_Remember last month when you came over and found that scrapbook on the coffee table? The one that was full of pictures of you? Well, to be honest, I wasn’t really helping Hermione with a project…_

Ugh. He can’t admit to Harry that the scrapbook is really his, not even on parchment. That would just be too embarrassing. Harry knows he’s been experimenting with the camera he found in his mum’s attic but he doesn’t know about Ron’s little photo collection or that Ron is actually using the scrapbooking supplies that George gave him as a joke on his last birthday. 

He’ll write a poem instead. That’ll be romantic.

_Harry—_

_You light up my life_

_Every single thing you do_

_I’m in love with you_

Fuck. He can’t send that one either. Haikus really aren’t his forte. Maybe he should try a sonnet.

_Dear Harry,_

_We met when we were only eleven_

_I never thought I’d meet someone like you_

_Spending time with you feels like heaven_

_It makes my heart feel like a pile of goo_

He might be even worse at sonnets. Not that it’s much of a surprise there; he _did_ get D’s on the poetry portion of that creative writing course Hermione made them take last year. Not that he cares of course. He and Harry only went to get her to stop harping at them about their _“disappointing lack of intellectual drive”_ and _“complete disregard for anything that doesn’t involve broomsticks.”_

Ron sighs and crumples the parchment in his fist before throwing it into the reject pile with the others. He’s been sitting at his desk for almost the entire weekend. He can’t put off telling him any longer but fuck if it isn’t impossible to put into words. How does he go about telling his best mate that he’s in love with him and not have Harry run away screaming?

Ron thinks he’s a bit of alright. He might not be as intelligent as Hermione or as charismatic as Harry but he’s grown into his height since Hogwarts and gained quite a bit of muscle during auror training. He’s also won the inter-office ‘most charming smile award’ two years running, he laughs about it with the others in the DMLE but he’s actually quite pleased with it. There was even a rather nice photograph of him in the monthly newsletter. He has it saved in a scrapbook somewhere.

Maybe he should use some visuals, after all a picture _is_ worth a thousand words. He retrieves his camera from the bedroom, pausing in the doorway on the way back to survey his apartment and find the best vantage point from which to take a decent photograph. 

He’s limited in options for where he can take photos. His bedroom is right out, that feels sleazy, besides it’s really too small to work in. The kitchen would be awkward, it has great light but a stove top doesn’t exactly scream sexy. 

He decides to take the picture in the living room as it’s more comfortable and there’s a nice glow coming from the fairy lights on his little Christmas tree. A low coffee table is positioned in front of the sofa and it looks to be the perfect height at which to set his miniature tripod up on, so he does. He sets up the automatic timer and quickly snaps a few pictures of himself laid out on the sofa in what he hopes is a provocative pose. 

Ron puts the camera away and writes another letter while he lets the photos develop.

_Harry,_

_I’ve wanted to tell you something for a while now but haven’t been able to find the words. I’m hoping these photographs will say it all._

When he takes the photos out of the solution after the forty minute waiting period, he’s disappointed in the results. Even he can’t tell if the blurry image in the photos is him, giving his best come hither smile, or Crookshanks playing with some red yarn. Dammit.

What he needs is some help, and he knows just who to ask. 

He snags a blank piece of parchment from his desk and scrawls out another letter, smudging the ink in his haste.

_Hermione,_

_I need your help._

_Meet me at my apartment as soon as possible._

_Ron_

He sets his quill down and opens his kitchen window to call for Pig. It’s gone completely dark outside and a quick glance at his watch tells him that it’s half ten. Hopefully Hermione is still awake and can come over straight away.

Ron knows that he doesn’t have to finish Harry’s love letter tonight but… it’s almost Christmas and he really wants to spend the holiday with Harry as his boyfriend. He’s spent the last few years watching all of his friends and family pair off and settle down into relationships and he secretly, desperately, wants the same for himself. 

Pig swoops down onto the windowsill a moment later and gives him a shrill hoot in greeting. He ties the letter to the proffered leg and sends Pig off into the night, shutting the window after him. Ron heads back into his living room, side stepping an armchair, to lie down on his comfortable, overstuffed sofa and close his eyes. He can picture Harry perfectly in his mind; his messy hair, brushed down over his forehead to cover his scar, his verdant eyes, always hidden behind smudged glasses, and that self-deprecating smile that always makes Ron’s heart beat just a little bit faster than normal.

He imagines waking up on Christmas morning to the smell of hot cider. He stretches his muscles and feels that delicious ache that only comes after a long night of passion. Ron conjures up a fantasy in which he rolls out of bed, clad only in his pants, and walks out into the dining room to find Harry setting the table for breakfast.

He’s finished cooking and is just laying out the last of the food, arranging things just so. Ron smiles as he watches the muscles in Harry’s bare shoulders flex. His gaze drifts downward, taking in the sight of smooth, tanned skin and loose cotton pajama bottoms that hang low on Harry’s hips and cup his arse perfectly. Ron feels his cock twitch at the sight. He’s always loved Harry’s arse.

He walks over to Harry and wraps his arms around his slim waist, setting his chin on Harry’s shoulder and reveling in the warmth of his body in Ron’s arms. He feels more than hears Harry’s sigh and Ron can’t help but press a kiss to the side of his neck and run his hands across the flat of Harry’s stomach, sliding the tips of his fingers into the waistband of his pajama bottoms.

Harry turns his head and tilts his face up to meet Ron in a kiss. It’s slow and languid and it makes Ron lightheaded with its intensity. He deepens the kiss as Harry turns in his arms and brings his hands up to cradle Ron’s face, stroking his thumbs tenderly across the stubble on his jaw.

Ron can’t resist the temptation to slide his hands down to Harry’s arse and squeeze. Harry jerks back from Ron’s lips and gasps, rocking his hips up and grinding his hardening cock into Ron’s own. 

Ron slides his hands farther down and grips Harry’s thighs, straining the muscles in his arms as he lifts Harry up as much as he can. Harry wraps his legs around Ron’s waist and winds his arms around his neck. Ron growls deep in his chest and hauls Harry out of the dining room and back towards the bedroom.

He navigates them both down the hallway and into the bedroom.

“You’re so goddamn sexy…” Harry whispers, and his hot breath in Ron’s ear shoots straight to his cock.

“Fuck me, Ron.”

“I need you in me _now._ ”

He feels his legs bump into the mattress and then he’s leaning forward, tipping them both onto the bed as gently as he can. He wants to take this slowly and savour each moment he spends with Harry. 

He looks down and Harry is gazing up at him and his eyes are so very bright and filled with indescribable emotion. His mouth is curved up into a sweet smile that Ron knows is reserved just for him.

Ron takes his time removing Harry’s bottoms and allows Harry to remove his. He presses kisses to every inch of Harry’s body as slowly as his libido will allow and runs his hands lovingly over the smooth skin presented to him. 

Too soon, Harry is begging for more and Ron is unable to deny him. He reaches for his nightstand to get the tube of lubricant he knows is there… and then he hears the floo roar to life.

Ron’s eyes snap open and he feels himself flush as he realizes two things: Hermione is here and is stepping out of the floo and his cock is fully erect and straining noticeably against his trousers.

He quickly sits up and attempts to preserve his dignity by dragging a quilt over his lap. Hermione raises an eyebrow and brushes a bit of soot off the front of her robes. 

“Honestly Ron, you have a bedroom you can do that in. I hardly think you want anyone who sticks their head into the floo to see you servicing yourself.”

Ron, embarrassed, evades her gaze and mumbles a vague apology in her direction.

Hermione gives him tut of disapproval and says, “I’ll just make tea then, shall I?” 

She doesn’t wait for a response; instead she makes her way through the dining room and into the kitchen and begins heating the kettle. Ron just watches, trying to decide what to say to her. He’s just now realizing that telling his ex-girlfriend he’s in love with their mutual best friend is almost as scary as telling said friend he’s in love with him. 

He still hasn’t managed to come up with a good excuse for making her come over in the middle of the night when Hermione returns with the tea. She passes him a steaming mug and Ron closes his eyes, inhaling deeply, trying to figure out where to begin. 

He decides he may as well just tell her the truth. He’s always been pants at lying to her anyway. He opens his mouth to just say it when he hears her giggle. Ron’s eyes fly open. Hermione has not, as Ron assumed, sat down in her usual armchair. Instead she is standing over his desk and holding—

Fuck.

She’s got one of his love letters in her hand and is giggling at what she reads. Ron’s chest constricts painfully at the sight. If Hermione can’t even read one without laughing then Ron’s got no hope of being able to get Harry to. 

Ron takes a small sip of his tea and pulls himself away from his inner musings to refocus on Hermione. She’s picking up another letter from the mound on the desk, smoothing out the crumpled parchment with a silent wave of her wand, her eyes skim through the words Ron’s been struggling with.

Eventually she finishes with her perusal and turns around, leaning her body against the edge of the desk. She smiles at him and the warmth in her expression reassures him that if this whole love letter business blows up in his face he’ll at least still have Hermione as a friend.

She speaks first in a soft tone that’s filled with amused fondness. “Harry doesn’t need to hear any extravagant words. He needs to hear how you feel from your heart.” 

Ron pokes at a hole in the quilt and talks to his knees. “I tried. I really did. I think I’ve written about a hundred letters and they’re all rubbish. He’s going to laugh at me, too.”

“Harry would never laugh at you. Even if he doesn’t feel the same way, he’s your best friend and he cares about you too much to hurt you.”

Ron’s throat feels tight and his eyes are starting to sting from threatening tears. He has to take a few more sips of his tea before he’s able to speak again. 

“I just… I love him. So much it hurts. I can’t lose him but I need more than to just be his friend.” 

Hermione gives him a long searching look, her brown eyes serious, and then shakes her head affectionately. “I’ll help you. Let’s start by getting rid of this awful poetry…”

Five hours, two pots of tea, and an emergency run to the 24 hour Indian restaurant for takeaway helped create what Ron thinks is _the_ letter. It’s not too long. It’s eloquent yet simple, and it states Ron’s love in a way that’s neither undermines his intentions nor makes him sound like a crazed stalker— or his sister, for that matter.

Around six a.m. he finally bids Hermione goodnight, even though the sun has already begun to rise, and watches her vanish is a swirl of emerald green flames. He goes back to the kitchen and reopens his window to call once more for Pig. Ron ties the letter to his leg and gives him an affectionate stroke before sending him off with an owl treat and a whispered “hurry,” lest he lose his nerve to post the letter after all. 

Ron’s been up for almost twenty hours at this point but is too wired to sleep. He needs to do something to keep mind occupied and _not_ thinking about the single most important, or potentially humiliating, letter of his life. He decides that flying is the best distraction and heads over to his parents’ house to borrow use of their garden.

This turns out to be a great decision. A few hours, and several wronksi feints later, the anxiety he was feeling has shifted into growing anticipation. He needs to go home and find out if Harry has written him back. 

Ron apparates into his sitting room and moves to go check the post but a figure sat in his armchair makes him stop.

Harry’s giving him an intense look and is clutching a familiar piece of parchment in his hand. He gets to his feet and moves to stand in front of Ron. His hair is messy as ever, his eyes just as intensely green, but his mouth is pulled down into a little frown that makes Ron’s heart ache.

Harry regards him for a long moment before he lets out a shaky breath and asks, “Did you send this letter? Is it true?”

Ron can only nod dumbly, staring at Harry, willing him to say the words he’s always wanted to hear…

Harry’s face breaks out into a wide grin and he whispers, “I love you too.”

Ron can’t stop himself from closing the space between them and then Harry is in his arms smelling like treacle and quidditch and _Christmas_ and Ron has never been happier.

Harry is laughing a little and mumbling something into Ron’s chest. Between the mumbling and the roaring in his own ears all he can make out is “hoped… thought maybe… George… joke,” and then Ron is laughing too.

“No. It’s not a joke. I love you Harry.”

Ron can’t help but to pull him in as close as possible, basking in the warmth and scent of him, completely, desperately in love and never willing to let go. Harry takes him by the hand and leads him towards the bedroom Ron wonders if maybe he’ll never have to.

Ron wakes up the next morning and it’s Christmas. He smiles as he realizes that Harry is still in bed and is pressed tightly up against his back. Their legs are entwined and he can feel Harry’s breath ghosting across the nape of his neck.

Ron rolls over and wraps his arms around his sleeping boyfriend. He’s excited to spend their first Christmas together and can think of no better start to the day than a lazy morning lie in. Harry sighs sleepily and buries his face into Ron’s neck, pressing a soft kiss into sensitive skin.

“Happy Christmas Ron.”

A Happy Christmas indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> This story was part of the [hrholidays](http://hrholidays.livejournal.com/) fest over at Livejournal.


End file.
